on gyming it up 6

I never did finish this did I? The saga continues...

Our culture has created certain ideals for each of us to live up to. There exists for men a certain ideal image not in some metaphysical realm but in the world of the social. Call it a Social Form, if you will. Now unlike Plato’s forms these particular ideals are subject to change over time, much like language. The antecedents of the ideal Social Form for men were given voice during the Enlightenment period. Human well being (health) and incredibly optimistic views about our abilities to manipulate nature (power, some might say hubris) have lead to the culturally conditioned Social Form that visually confirms to us whether or not a given man is in possession of these attributes. A toned (fatless) body with generous muscle definition denotes manliness evoking a sense of power, vitality and well being; this is the Enlightenment reified.

Our culture is saturated with signs which give birth to the Social Form. As this composite model of what is desirable becomes ingrained in the value system of a society, we can decide whether or not to conform to the form presented. That is, we may attempt to simulate the image. The images are everywhere we see them on bill boards, and advertisements showing us what the epitome of manliness looks like. The cultural theorist Baudrillard applies an interesting interpretation to the concept of simulation. At its most advanced level simulations no longer duplicate reality they replace it. Early civilizations attempted to reproduce scenes from nature, as technology advanced more elaborate signs and artifacts became possible. The ideal male body seen in this light is a simulacra, when one attempts to simulate its Social Form a piece of reality is not being reproduced but a new object that is created replaces the former figment of reality. We now have entered the hyper-real, the real that is more real than real, the manly that is more manly than manly.

This is me re-enforcing the stereotype:

 (except I can't remember what I've done at the gym these past few weeks so the following is an approximate)

bench 87.5/2*8,4

chins, dead hang (me)/3*8

seated row 65/3*10 

front squat 90/3*5

I have found that training in-season is exceptionally more difficult than the off-season. It hurts. It really does.

what if...

I woke up everyday and felt like getting out of bed? This is what I dream about when I'm sleeping. This is theoretically attainable in a no-fuss type of way. Here's what to do, limit myself to only one weakness: chocolate and ice cream; which I will only eat ever again on Sundays, and only if I've been good and not ingested any other naughty things throughout the week. This sounds only partially as ridiculous as I intended. If you haven't got your health, you haven't got anything. I will get no less than 8.5 hours of lying in bed at night, most of which I hope to spend sleeping. I will also  make mental notes of each time that I blog about making sweeping lifestyle changes that will once and for all redeem me from a misspent life, so that I can make encouraging gestures at myself in the mirror as a facade to cover what I fear may be the underlying truth. Proverbs teaches us that smiling makes us happier. Most importantly, no matter how devastated by the ravages of tiredness, I will continue to go to the gym:

bench 85kgs/3*8

chins, n-grip me/3*8

high row, rope 45/3*8

hu-rrah!

random connectedness

I chomp into, then slurp down a sample to make sure my 2 minute noodles are al dente. I go to the loo and am greeted by a cartoonishly large cockroach. Did Gregor Samsa accidentally slip into and drown in my toilet bowl? Has my flatmate taken to gourmet servings of super sized insects and passed one, without the customary digestive functions of the bowel taking affect? Only time will tell. I play rugby league and we win on a last second try. Are all these events somehow connected? I don't know, but I'm living them.

I step into the gym and things make sense...

bp 75/2*8

inc bench 70/2*8

sit row, v bar 70/4*8

rear delt fly 2(5)/3*8 (pause on each rep)

being and becoming

I am sitting down finally. The haze of sheer exhaustion from this week has been washed away momentarily by the torrential down pour during footy training today. There's no real reason why rugby league should be called footy. The ball for 90 percent of a game is kept in hand. It's one of those things that has always puzzled me. Before the weight of my specially cultivated malignant tiredness resumes, I sit and reflect. I'm human. All too human. This is a trait I'll never overcome. I sit and imagine things different, as they could possibly be if I were not the person who was fantasizing about alternate realities.

I feel like I learned something today. It's one of those lessons that you already know, but only on an intellectual level. I don't say this dismissively, I'm all for cold calculating irrefutable logic, but there are certain phases that an idea needs to pass through before it attains apotheosis. It's not quite out of the chrysalis for me yet; still digesting, to mix a metaphor. I'm reading What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami, a literary savant from Japan. It's a memoir of sorts about running and the writing life. The lesson was simply this: when he does something he puts everything into it. This guy runs marathons for fun. It's crazy, there really are no secrets to success.

what I talk about when I talk about working out...

(A1) bp 80kgs/3*8

(A2) chin, n-grip me/2*8;6

(A3) row, seated, v-grip 55,60,65*8

looking at the unseen

Bereft of the tools consequent to achieving the unattainable levels of awesomeness so desired, I delivered my ignoble machinations to the feet of other, more worthy adherents of the code. My offerings unappreciated, and abilities still lacking I resolved to continue in the original course predetermined by leaders that I had committed to follow, yet never had met; a peculiar loyalty that I had failed to question, spoiled by my singular focus in achieving a design which was as much a mystery to me as they were. Better a life of meaning as defined by others than the existential angst of the unknown, although a silent voice kept telling me I could never be sure.


work out>>
pull ups me*19
bench 100*4,102.5*3,100*3
pull ups me/2*10
OH squat, 60/3*3
power snatch 60,70

a christmas workout

After finishing work for good Friday last week, I used my new found free time to do some crazy things like waking up at 5 in the morning to play basketball for 2-3 hours at a time. This takes some getting used to. My legs are totally drained, yet I still feel compelled to squat like I'm fighting to hold onto an abandoned house. Sometimes it feels like a loosing battle. Next time you're completely pasted try doing as many front squats as you can (full depth) with 60kgs/132lbs. It doesn't seem like much weight, but it wears you down fast when you're used to low rep ranges. I was disappointed to find I could only do 26 before wussing out.

bench 50*38,16,21
front squat 60*26,10,10

2 for 1 thanks to the crusty-old-naked-guy

Beware the men’s changing room. There must an immutable law written somewhere that there will always and forever be a crusty-old-naked-guy standing guard at every single one of these places. I walk in and I see more than I'm inclined to tell and I weep for humanity. I know it's a changing room and nakedness is bound to ensue at some point, but must you continuously offend my sensitive eyeballs with your painstakingly developed beer gut, your saggy man boobs, and other saggy things. I swear it's the same damn guy every time. Every gym has one. Here's an idea: try putting on some clothes and going home for once. I'm sure you'll start feeling better about yourself immediately or at least I will. Yesterday I slipped up and stepped in to relieve myself, what was my horror when I was met by that ever-present sentinel of manly nakedness. I was so traumatized that I almost forgot I worked out. So here's that session and today's in all their glory. I believe I've learned my lesson. Beware the men’s changing room.

17/12/08
bench 100/3*5,4
chins me(98kgs)/2*10;5

volume: 4350kgs

18/12/08
bent press 20*3 l & r
one arm snatch 40*1 l & r
sumo DL 80*10,120*10,140*8,160*5,180*5,200*5
power C&J 80/2*4,100,105,110 (did split jerk today)

volume: 6975kgs

something to think about next time you go to the gym

On Gyming It Up part 2 (here's part one)


Certain sensibilities have crept to the surface of our collective conscious over the past few decades. Somewhere close to the top of this heap of human conceptions is the desire to promote a healthy lifestyle. This desire to transcend the natural deterioration of organic matter is probably an offshoot of the oft-lamented Enlightenment project[1]. Among the many parts which gave shape to the body of this intellectual movement (along with the promotion of rationality, equality and subsequently the dispersion of superstitions, holy blood-lines and the like) was the establishment of the human being as the new centre of the universe. Nature was a chaotic malaise that would soon bend to our unreasonably impressive reasonableness[2]. It is implied then that humans possess an immense power, the power to control reality through reason. As we harnessed the combined powers of our considerable intellects we would conquer nature and leave some of her less than desirable aspects like (but not limited to) ageing, sickness and death bruised and beaten into submission...

and bada bing bada boom a work out
bench 60*8, 95/4*5
chins 95/4*5
seated row 94/4*5
OHP 2(22.5)*8,5


[1] For the purposes of this essay, the idea that the Enlightenment was a phallocentric phenomenon will be treated as axiomatic.
[2] Nisbet: The Sociological Tradition, pp 21-44

"push through the pain barriers"

Sometimes doing something half-arsed seems better than doing nothing at all. I wouldn't recommend adopting that as a life principle, but when you start to feel the flakes of flakiness fall on your head, don't be fooled, that's not dandruff, that's the world pitifully trying to hold you down. At times like those it's probably best to er on the side of action. So I dusted off me head and mailed in another work out, snail mailed, it got banged up during delivery, but it got there in the end...

bench 20*40;40*40;60*14,12;
bench (p-grip) 60*6
dead hang chins 98(me)*8,6
power clean: 100 missed it, 100 got it

on the shoulders of giants: a series celebrating the burly strong men of yesteryear

Don't mock the leopard skin, Joe Greenstein could bite a nail in half (among other things); today I had to settle for:

bench: 60*5;80*5;90/2*5,8;

chins: 98/5*5

inc bench: 70/2*6

chins (n-grip) 98/2*5

volume:

late entry

This work out actually happened yesterday, but I'm logging it today, somehow I'm slipping. In other news my special NaNoWriMo production sits at a formidible 832 words. Somebody stop me.

bench: 40/2*30;20
chins: 98/4*6
inc bench: 60*4,5
hammer row: 100/2*7
seated row: 77/2*8

volume:

packed

Mack mental note to self: do not work out @ 5pm on Mondays. Not at this gym.The basement level was packed tighter than a Chinese passenger train at peak hour. I went on patrol, maneuvering with great difficulty through the seething crowd, searching for a vacant work station. All the benches (read: all the important places) were occupied. During my amazing journeys across the cutting room floor, after I recovered from the worst play on words ever, like that wasn't even a pun, like lets forget that ever happened, like totally, I like came across two familiar statues posing as men or maybe it was the other way around. I thought I'd just walked into the never ending story and these sentinels were charging up their eye blasts just in case they needed to purge the landscape of any weakly passers by. These were fellow power-lifters, brothers with arms, competitors (yes, we'd faced off before in the university power lifting contest), but they were benching and when it comes to benching challenges it's best for me just to walk the other way. I offered salutations and they volunteered their consolations as I tucked my tail and migrated to the outskirts of the gym. After a begrudging wait, I finally got a bench, loaded it up, looked at the weight and couldn't help but feel disappointed.

bench: 60*10, 95/5*3
chins 98m/6*5

volume:

escape from imminent destruction

Getting stapled is not a flattering experience. What it is, is simply a failure in an attempt to lift a weight, resulting in the entire gym populace laughing in your face while you try to rack or deload the weight without causing yourself grievous bodily harm. The ego hit is always bad, but things can and do get uglier: last week I saw a guy drop a barbel on his head while benching pressing. In less than 2 minutes it looked like he had a plumb growing out the side of his face. Kids, always use a spotter! I don't recommend getting stapled, the psychological and physical damage just isn't worth it. Conversely some of the most satisfying moments you can have in the gym are when you straddle staple territory and somehow complete your lift. Today I had one of those moments. I was benching. The weight, which was underwhelming as usual, slowed as it came off my chest. Gravity my, arch nemesis in the weight room, thought it had claimed another victory. I think that the bar actually reversed in it's motion momentarily, my gym life flashed before eyes and I decided that I didn't feel like eating any barbell today. I squirmed, I cursed sub-vocally, I bargained with the weight and still it didn't budge. I clenched my but-cheeks and for some reason felt like I was going to tear asunder from my crotch on upwards. Then it happened, like Deus ex machina, except my escape wasn't facilitated by an outward source it was all internal. I finished the lift and lived to see another day. Words can't explain how satisfying this feels.

power snatch: 40*3, 45*3, 50*3, 55, 60, 65, 70, 75
power C&J: 80, 85, 90, 95
bench 60*10, 80*5, 85*5, 90*4
chins (n) me (97kgs)/3*8, 6
db OHP 2(20)/3*10

volume:

abysmal bench

What if I were to tell you that I bench like a girl? Would you think less of me? Do you think that initial question is sexist? Do you think that what you think matters? Good for you.

bench 40*31, 45*15,50*12,55*10,60*8,65*5,70*3
seated row 70*10,77*10,84*10

volume: 6390

smashed out of my brains

I can barely recollect what happened, besides the numbers. I staggered into the gym, switched on the automatic pilot and went to work. Was I on the grog? I wish. No, I'd just spent the entire day outside and almost managed to get sunstroke, but fell short at the end. Maybe next time.


Bench 20*30, 40*40, 50*15,60*12,70*5 (failed & spotted on last rep)
Pull ups (98)6,4
reverse bench 30*10,50*10,70*8,60*10

volume: 2940

working out stuff

Oh, that's a good question. Now is probably a good time to get the jump on new year's resolutions. They'll never see it coming. With that in mind here goes: I'm going to start for an NBA team, any one will do, I don't play favourites and in my spare time I'll play linebacker for the Dallas Cowboys.

Realistic goals? What are you talking about? What's the point then?

OK, I admit I've got a few things to work on. I seem to be missing a jump shot, but once I find it, I'm sure there's one around here somewhere, I'm a top 10 draft pick for sure.

What's that? Yes, that's right I'm not black, I don't live in America and I'm old. That just makes it more interesting doesn't it. Look at Arnie he's all of those things and he's doing just fine.

Well, if you insist on being boring here they are. I'm going to get ridiculously ripped, I'm going to do a between the legs dunk within a year, power snatch my own body weight, and I'm sure I'll think of some more arbitrary motivators once you get off my back. Any more questions?

Yes. I did work out today.

bench 80*10,8,8
chins 97/5*6
inc bench 50/2*10
seated row 77/2*6

volume: 6194kgs

Just call me Mr Clutch

I play for a social league basketball team at Auckland University. I don't go there anymore for study, but I just can't stay away from the place. The gym facilities are top notch and they're usually populated with attractive females, but that's not why I go of course, just mentioning it because it's something I've innocently noticed as I've gone about my business. Yesterday we, the banally named Wildcats, played last semester's reigning champions: The Fab 5 (there's at least 10 of them). Having just come off a loss against a truly insipid group of players we didn't rate ourselves much of a chance to come away with the win. The game started with us winning the ball and one of my teammates kindly feeding me wide open in the post for an easy bucket... and the foul. I can honestly say I've never heard the type of reaction that ensued because of a three point play after I completed mine. The crowd was in hysterics, sure I went about 1/10 last week from the line, but it was still a bit much. It felt like I'd just won a gold medal at the Special Olympics.

As the game went on I kept hitting free throws (the crowd progressively less impressed with each successful attempt). We kept within about 5 points of them the whole time until the end, when we took the lead by three and they hit a three to send it into overtime. This comp squeezes 4 games onto one court in one night, meaning corners need to be cut for the sake of time management and so we play running clock, a terrible horrible dreadful thing, but necessary nonetheless. Overtime was a hearty 2 minutes with team fouls being carried over from the previous period. Both teams scored a basket each and then I got fouled with 15 seconds to go, with the Fab 5 in the penalty. I confidently stepped up to line, went through my routine and bricked the first, this seemed to loosen the tension in the arena a little. Crazy old Loren, that's more like it. My teammates offered words of consolation "we'll emasculate you if you don't hit this next one." It was settled then. The time on the clock expired. All I had to do was hit one foul shot and we could go home. As I went through my pre-shot ritual, several thoughts went through my mind. I'm tired lets get this in so I can have a breather. I wonder what Shoalin temple's like. Emasculation. Win the game. Do it for my hommies in the gangstaleen. Never divide by zero. Finally I decided: lets not worry about any of that there's the hoop there and here's the ball going through it. We won the game and none of the bastards in the crowd cheered.

Today...
Bench 75/15*5

volume: 5625kgs

Then I went to McD's and had a mean feed.

Lightning Thunder and Nazi Attack Strategies

I have a confession to make, I've been holding it in since Saturday, but it's been building in intensity ever since and it's now time to come clean (thankfully no one actually reads this blog): I have a man crush on Usain Bolt. There I said it. I'm secure in my manhood though, as my previous posts have indicated, yes I bench all the time so I can say anything I like because nothing but testosterone pumps through these veins. For anyone who thinks I have homophobic issues I'll have you know that many of my favourite sports have homo-erotic undertones. Well, I'm sure glad we've got that issue settled.

Ah, what an absolute freak of nature, this guy's what Superman and Flash would be if they were black and/or cool. After dancing his way to the 100 meter record and a gold medal with his shoes untied, in his own words he decided to "leave everything out there on the track today" and that's what he did (well, yesterday). Now he's got the 200m record and gold too, why not the 400m and 800m as well, because by the looks of things this guy could own any race anywhere, any time. With this new source of inspiration I merrily marched my way to the gym and blitzkrieged it, in and out like a lightning bolt.

a1 bench 70/6*5

a2 chins (95 me)/6*5

volume: 4950kgs

The Measure of Manhood

I walked into the gym. Surrounded by what looked to be a collection of NZ's finest troglodytes, my testosterone levels rose accordingly. I got to the bench press and felt finally I'm home. Although my past efforts on this lift have been nothing short of girlish, I decided to put the past behind me and to do what every other red blooded male does when they workout (and nothing else)...

Bench press. 60*10, 65*10, 70*10, 75*10, 70*8 last two reps horrible, needed a spot

volume: 3260kgs

"I'm Batman" I think

I watched the Dark Knight and it left me with an overwhelming feeling that can only be summarized as follows: everyone on earth should watch this movie. Not because it's particularly good, no, mainly because it's incomprehensibly, unfathomably, unequivocally, ridiculously good. In saying that it's probably best if I concede that hyperbole can't quite encapsulate the enormity of its goodness. We'll just have to settle for my clumsy description of its ineffable cinematic brilliance.

After seeing it on Saturday night, I walked out of the theatre and into Loren fantasy land. Which of the characters did I identify with the most? In the end I'd say I'm equal parts Joker and Batman in the sense that I'm not at all like either of them, I am neither incomprehensibly rich nor certifiably insane. Trying my best on both accounts though. Lets say that I'm a special kind of Two-Face (who's real world counterpart, Aaron Eckhart, is also a Mormon, good for him), half-batman and half-joker and all things in between. Every time I saw the Batman laying the smack down I got the uncontrollable urge to get buff (yes, I'm considering professional help for this). When I saw the Joker make that pencil disappear I wanted to be a magician. Both we're incredibly intelligent which no doubt has its benifits. In the end though as much as I'd like to be an agent of chaos, Batman wins out mainly because of his story. He took a tragedy, turned it around, set a goal, honed his mind and body to achieve the result he wanted through determined discipline (and he's also a total nut-case but we wont let that weigh to heavily on our opinion). Who would of thought that a comic book character could be so exemplary? Back to reality...

deadlift 140*8, 160*4, 140*8
power C&J 80/3*3
bench 60/2*10

volume: 4800kgs

Kudos to Heath Ledger, by the way, who was amazing as the Joker. I thought all the pre-release hype about his performance was well-meaning well-wishing in honour of the dead. I stand corrected.